Real
by B. Murakawa
Summary: In which the Scarecrow and Tin Woodman regret.


author's notes: this draws mostly on book canon, and since i'm a sucker for romance...anyway, my excuse is i did it because i could.  
  
warnings: well, if the tin woodman being in love with dorothy weirds you out, it's probably best if you turn back now--or you could flame me, if it irks you badly.  
  
disclaimer: i don't own the characters, or the book (which this is based on), or the movie, or anything that has to do with the wizard of oz. they belong to the author and his family. this is just for fun, and i am making no money whatsoever.  
  
[Real]  
  
"Love is an attempt to change a piece of a dream world into reality."  
--Theodor Reik  
  
i.  
  
Moonlight reflects off of a nearby puddle of water, teeming with summer mosquitoes and gnats. Stars are huge on the horizon--in the west, the last bloody shreds of sunlight reluctantly fade away.  
  
Her skin is sticky with humidity and sweat, and that combined with her body heat makes her a living furnace. Still, I allow her to rest her head upon my shoulder without much complaint. Her breath must be heavy with alcohol, though of course I cannot tell, having no sense of smell; she's been drinking on and off since six o' clock, and it is now after eight.  
  
"Yer always s' cold," she slurs into my ear.  
  
I don't reply; she is naturally right. I'm only warm in direct sunlight, and the few minutes it takes for my body to cool down again. Her arms have somehow found their way around my waist, and there they remain like hot irons. I guess to a creature of flesh she wouldn't seem so unbearably overheated; I may not be able to feel pain, but even a creature of my constitution can sense heat. It feels almost like I am on the verge of melting--like my metallic body is weakening.  
  
It's sketchy, if-and-maybe territory. She shouldn't be drunk, and I shouldn't like her this way, and we shouldn't be here, in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of the Emerald City. The Lion (no longer Cowardly) is asleep in the nearby fields, his shadowy bulk moving gently in time with his breathing. As for the Scarecrow, I've no idea; he discovered the kegs of beer in the back of the barn, hidden under an ancient mule-cart. When he saw that Dorothy was determined to drown her painful memories with the alcohol, some unidentifiable thought passed through his new-found brain, and he wandered wordlessly away into the open air of the countyside.  
  
It has been nearly two weeks since the death of the Wicked Witch of the West. The story is rather jumbled--Dorothy was miserable with guilt when she first recounted it to the Scarecrow and I. "I didn't do it on purpose," she insisted desperately; "I didn't mean to kill the Witch!" The Scarecrow and I never met the Witch, since I was in pieces at the bottom of a cliff miles from the stronghold, and he was bundled up in a tree like so many rags.  
  
I think Dorothy's guilt has waned a little, replaced with despair. Oz the Great and Terrible was not so Great and Terrible as we four companions imagined. And though I can feel my heart rattling in the cavity of my chest, and can see the transformations of the Lion and the Scarecrow, Dorothy has only us and the broken promise of a man who ascended in his great balloon and deserted her.  
  
Dorothy's small palm rests open on my metal stomach, as if searching for my heart. I remember what it was to be a man, and be in possession of strong warm arms and gentle hands. Suddenly, I'm envious of the Lion, who is at least flesh and blood, and could comfort this girl if he desired to.  
  
"Don't mind s'much anymore," she continues softly, drunkenly. "You. An' how cold you are. 'Cause it feels kinda . . ." She hiccups twice, presses her burning face against my hard neck and sobs so violently it jars her entire body. "Oh God! I wanna g-go home!"  
  
Careful not to grasp too tightly, I pull her away, hold her at arms length. She's become thin and wraithlike in the past two weeks, her eyes dull and desperate by turns. "I shall rust," I say, my voice stumbling over the words. I hate them even as they fall from my inhuman mouth--I would give the world to be the Lion, or even the Scarecrow, both of whom harbor no fear of water and rust.  
  
ii.  
  
"I almost regret having thoughts to think," the Scarecrow mutters, his lanky straw-stuffed form a black silhouette against a blue velvet sky. "They may be driving me insane."  
  
"Dorothy is asleep," I say softly--an impossibility for the Scarecrow, whose voice is like dried corn husks in the fall. "You mustn't wake her."  
  
"She looks ghastly." The Scarecrow has never been one for subtlety. "I do not understand why she clings to her grief; as for me, I am quite glad to be free of such bothersome things as 'emotions'."  
  
"You only say that because you wish to be surly," I accuse lightly. "It is difficult not to be fond of her--even a creature like yourself, who does not possess a heart, must agree."  
  
He doesn't say anything for a long time, just stands there silent and still as if he, not I, were made of tin.  
  
"I--I disagree!" His tone is unusually fierce. "I am satisfied with what I have--I don't care at all!"  
  
Then he stalks away, his boots lifting dirt and dry grass from the earth.  
  
iii.  
  
Dorothy is pretty by night and day. In the Emerald City, what seems a long time ago, she was given a long white dress that falls around her bare ankles and the silver shoes below, a white dress with a sash and a large bow in the back and a surprisingly low neckline outlined in lace.  
  
She's long since lost the ties for her hair, and it falls in dark curls all down her back, messy outside of the confining braids.  
  
She doesn't know or doesn't care--the only thing on her mind lately is that she has Killed, and that she has Lost, and I'm not sure I can lie convincingly enough to tell her that everything is going to be all right.  
  
But I catch the Scarecrow watching her with his painted eyes as we walk through golden fields, gnats drifting in dark clouds around our heads. The Lion walks ahead, Dorothy leaning heavily against him, her thin limbs almost translucent in the noonday sun. The Lion ocassionally says something to her, and she nods in agreement, or responds with a quiet "yes" or "no"; she never smiles.  
  
I can almost read the Scarecrow's mind, because it is a mirror image of my own. He's hating himself for what he doesn't have and can't give. He's hating himself because he isn't alive, not in the way that Dorothy needs, and because he asked for the wrong thing from Oz.  
  
He should have asked to be real.  
  
iv.  
  
"What a marvel!"  
  
The Munchkin's curly head only comes to just above my waist, and he prods me with thick fingers, checking my joints and mmhmming over the jaggedly molded patch on my chest.  
  
"And you say you are, in fact, a man?"  
  
"Was a man," the Scarecrow corrects pointedly before I can say anything. "Now he is but a Tin Woodman."  
  
"A Tin Woodman badly in need of oil," I add helpfully. "I'm afraid I ran out as we were entering this rather--if you don't mind my saying-- diminutive country. It looks like rain, and if I should become wet, I will cease to function."  
  
"How unfortunate!" The Munchkin nods and mutters to himself, turning to regard the cluttered shelves that line the walls of his shop. "Have you an oil-can?"  
  
"Yes--here it is," the Scarecrow hands it to him.  
  
"Oh!" The Munchkin holds it well away from himself. It looks out of place next to me, all silver and gold and sparkling with jewels. "Oh, my!"  
  
"The Winkies crafted it," I explain, somewhat embarassed.  
  
"Well, I daresay this is yet another marvel; for I have never seen such an elaborate oil-can, and I have never seen a--a being like you, Mr. Woodman!"  
  
"I shouldn't think so," replies the Scarecrow dryly, as the little mechanic goes about searching for oil. "He is the only one of his kind, and for a long time was rusted inert in a wood far from here."  
  
The Scarecrow and I exit the small shop, calling our thanks to the bewildered Munchkin mechanic (who thankfully did not charge us), my now full oil-can safely within my grasp.  
  
"You know," says the Scarecrow, watching the Munchkins drawing away from the two of us as we walk down the narrow streets, "You said once that you fell in love with a Munchkin lass when you were a man, and that if you ever got a heart, you would return to her."  
  
"Ah," I say noncomittedly.  
  
I had a lot of time to think while I was in that wood, all alone and unable to move. I planned out my future--I sorted through my regrets, neatly packaged all of them. And the girl. Yes, the girl for whom I'd given all, even my body as I'd slowly lost all of it, bit by bit. I must have loved her once. And I would again. I thought that once I had a heart, my love for her would return.  
  
The Lion is waiting nervously outside of the inn, his tail twitching back and forth. "I heartily dislike the city," he declares as we approach, tossing his mane. "It is too loud, and the rooms are too small."  
  
"Dorothy cannot forever sleep upon the cold ground," the Scarecrow points out rationally. "And she must eat good, cooked food--she hasn't been eating much at all lately, and that does not sit well with me."  
  
"Nor with me," I say, and preceed the others into the shadowed interior of the Inn. Like all Munchkin buildings, the ceiling is low, and the furnishings simple. The Innkeeper nods to us--Dorothy seems to be well- known in these parts, and since we are Friends of Dorothy, we are also held in high-esteem.  
  
"The young mistress is in her room," the Innkeeper informs us. "Will you be retiring as well?"  
  
"I think not," scoffs the Lion. I can see he is going to be difficult. "I will return before sunset." And he disappears outside.  
  
"I am eager to see all there is to see in this city," says the Scarecrow thoughtfully. "And the day is still young! What say you, Woodman?"  
  
"I say I am weary. You go on without me."  
  
He leaves, casting back a doubtful glance, but I pretend I don't see.  
  
"Did Dorothy dine at all?" I ask of the Innkeeper after the Scarecrow has gone.  
  
"Well . . . no. I don't recall it if she did. The young mistress only went up to her room and--"  
  
"Please, have supper sent to her room--where is it, by the way?"  
  
v.  
  
The Munchkin cook leaves the tray of steaming soup and crackers with me. I balance it precariously and push open Dorothy's door, only to be nearly blinded by clear white light.  
  
The room is fresh and simple--an open window from which all the light is coming, white curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze, a bureau in the corner, polished wooden floorboards, and a large, four-poster bed, covered in clean linens. Dorothy is asleep on top of the coverlet, clad in a long shirt that dwarfs her--presumably borrowed from someone until her own clothes are washed.  
  
I set the tray on her bedside table and stand in silence, unable to wake her and unable to leave. Her hair fans out around her head on the pillow, and I trail metal fingers through the soft locks, wishing I could truly feel them. I'm kneeling now, closely scrutinizing her face and its familiar, childish features, though she is no longer a child, not really. Her lashes are long and dark, emphasizing the circles under her eyes--what I would give to have her smile again!  
  
She groans and grabs my hand and blue irises peek out from under heavy eyelids. "Woodman--what--" she stifles a yawn. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm about to coerce you into eating," I say casually, guestering towards the tray and its contents.  
  
"You touch me as if you never have before," she says, ignoring the food. "Do you like to? Touch me, I mean."  
  
Truthfully, I answer, "I don't know. I can only sense variances in temperature. I can't feel much at all, really."  
  
"Oh." Obediently, she pulls herself into an upright position, her legs bare and pale on the tousled blankets. I place the tray in her lap, and watch as she unenthusiastically swallows a few spoonfuls. After many silent minutes, she looks up at me, pink spots appearing on her pallid cheeks. Then, "I . . . I don't mind when you touch me."  
  
"All right," I say faintly, and can think of nothing better to add.  
  
"It's only that . . . I feel very much alone, and I doubt I shall ever find my way home, and--and--"  
  
She clams up then and will say nothing more for the rest of the night.  
  
vi.  
  
"It's Dorothy," the Scarecrow says one night.  
  
We're walking boredly around the inn where we have been staying for nearly a week. The moon is very bright, drowning the small town in its luminous beams. Once upon a time Dorothy would have stayed up with us to watch it pass through the sky, but now she is lying awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling and killing herself.  
  
"What?" Carefully I pluck a spider from the straw poking out of the Scarecrow's neck, and set it in the grass.  
  
He has a thoughtful look about him. "Dorothy. You . . . you love her, don't you?"  
  
"Well, of course I love her," I say, smiling. "We all do."  
  
He glares at me, disgusted. "Who claims up and down that his heart is the greatest possession of all? Who would have guessed that once you finally had it, you would neglect to use it?"  
  
"You make little sense, my friend," I say softly, and he stalks away in a rage, calling back that I am a fool and a liar.  
  
vii.  
  
She complains of nightmares (so she has been sleeping--finally!) and begs me to stay with her. "And you too, Scarecrow," but he laughs and says one guardian is surely enough, all the while watching me sharply to see my reaction. I ignore him.  
  
When he is gone she says, "Come sit by me, Woodman."  
  
Her eyes are full of spark and daring, color staining her cheeks. She looks more alive than she has in ages. I settle upon the edge of the bed, feeling it dip slightly; I am made of tin, and am not so heavy as you would think. She pushes herself free of a cocoon of sheets and crawls closer to me.  
  
"I should like to touch you," she whispers.  
  
Small hot fingers are already trailing fire up my arm, and I twitch away, discomfited. She stills me with a pleading glance, cautiously resuming her explorations. Though I am only a heart surrounded by tin, I appear a man, and I wonder that she should be so bold. Then I notice a small tumbler on the bedside table, with a slight glaze of wine still coating the bottom.  
  
"You're intoxicated," I accuse gently. She doesn't deny it.  
  
"I wish you could kiss me," she says throatily, and catches my hand in hers, and places it upon her cheek. "I know no other way to--to show you that I--" Her face is very close to mine. She presses an open-mouthed kiss upon my metallic lips. I do not move, only allow her this and regret that I cannot do the same.  
  
"Let me--," I say, and cannot finish. She understands, and falls into my arms, pliant and small and girlish though I know the beat pounding behind her pretty eyes is older than the world.  
  
viii.  
  
The Scarecrow stands in the doorway, slumped and tired. He doesn't say anything, only stares at me, and at Dorothy curled up in my cold embrace. Her breathing is even and hot against my chest.  
  
Then in the silence, his scratchy voice, "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had asked Oz for something else?" He doesn't have to say what that something else is, because I know. I know what we should have known then--as it is, we are barely alive, unable to die, stuck in stasis forever. Unreal.  
  
"All of the time," I whisper. 


End file.
